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Read Online Books/Novels:

My Week with the Bad Boy (My Week #1)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Brooke Cumberland

Lyra Parish

Book Information:

From the USA Today Bestselling duo that brought you the Checkmate Duet Series —Brooke Cumberland and Lyra Parish—comes a brand new addictive STANDALONE series!

Never trust a man who answers the front door wearing nothing more than a pair of low-cut jeans and a panty-melting smirk.

That should’ve been my first sign.

I write about guys just like him for a living—sexy and charming, yet reluctant to get into a serious relationship. His body screams sex appeal, but his condescending personality makes him a classic fuckboy.

And I want nothing to do with that.

Writing romance novels comes with its perks—traveling, meeting new people, creating characters from the voices in my head—but Ethan Rochester enters my life and rearranges all my preconceived notions about writing what inspires you.

One week is all it took. One week to realize that not everything is as it seems.

One week with the bad boy, and I wanted more.

**This is a complete STANDALONE novel—filled with plenty of humor, steam, & romance!**
18 & up only due to explicit sexual content, language, and adult content.

Books in Series:

My Week Series by Brooke Cumberland

Books by Author:

Brooke Cumberland Books

Lyra Parish Books

Chapter One


The plane rattles and shakes as it prepares to make its landing. Cringing, I steady myself on the armrest, but when I place my hand down, it touches the guy sitting next to me.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” I jerk my hand back and wrap my arms around my body.

“It’s okay. Take it,” the older gentleman offers. I’m not afraid of flying, but I don’t exactly love it either. Especially when it feels like we’re about to fly straight into the ground.

“Are you sure?” I ask although he’s already removed his arm. He nods, and I graciously wrap my fingers around it and squeeze. “Thank you.”

We finally land, and once we deplane, I grab my carry-on and head for the baggage claim. I can already feel the heat and am completely overdressed in my black leggings, winter boots, and thick scarf. South Carolina feels like a sauna, and I can almost taste the heat and humidity.

I hail a taxi and inform the driver where I’m going. It’s at least another two hours before we’ll arrive at the house, but it’ll be worth it. Quiet, solitary, peace. Just what I need to finish my novel. As soon as I open the car door, the scent of the ocean blows in the air. It smells like heaven.

“Thank you,” I tell the driver when he pulls my luggage out of the trunk.

“You definitely aren’t from around here, huh?” he comments, taking in my appearance and bad wardrobe choice. I furrow my brows, wondering if that’s meant as a bad thing. “You have a midwestern accent.” He confirms his suspicions.

“Oh, yes. Chicago,” I tell him. “I’m definitely not in the city anymore.” I laugh, grabbing for my wallet. Chicago has been home to me for years, but it’s loud, attracts tourists all year round, and neighbors are so close, you can hear them pee. I can only drown out the noise for so long before it drives me insane, which led me to booking an Airbnb for a week.

“It’s a whole different world out here,” he tells me.

I hand him the money with a smile. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

As the taxi drives away, I grab my luggage and take in the scenery. It’s stunning. The Airbnb I rented is a small guesthouse with a garden view. The pictures were amazing, so I’m looking forward to staying in this little peaceful sanctuary for the next week.

Walking up the sidewalk to the main house, I notice a cute porch swing on the patio and some planters along the porch steps. The owner seemed very charming and kind by the pictures, description, and detailed information he wrote for the listing. Everything screams southern. I like it. In fact, I like it a lot.

I ring the bell, and when the door opens wide, my eyes scan up and down the man’s body, and I’m shocked to see he’s completely shirtless. He’s wearing low-cut jeans that ride effortlessly on his hips.

He’s maybe a couple years older than me. Dark hair is tousled across his forehead, piercings in his ears, facial hair grazes his hard jawline, and rock-hard abs line his stomach. I swallow as my eyes roam down to the deep V that disappears into his low-cut jeans. He’s rugged and manly and definitely not what I expected to answer the door. He’s the epitome of a bad boy character I’d write about in one of my romance novels, and I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

It’s official. I’m undeniably not in Chicago anymore.

“Can I help you or do you plan to stand here and stare at me all evening?” he asks in a faint southern accent; his words take me completely off guard.

I snap my eyes back up and watch him as he studies my features. “That’s a rather crass assumption.”

“Not an assumption, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am. My name is Vada Collins. I rented the guesthouse,” I explain, tilting my chin toward the backyard.

“Vada? Hm.” He strokes his fingers along his scruff as he narrows his eyes at me.


“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Vada. In fact, I read your name as Vat-ah.”

“Yeah, that’s happened all my life.” I sigh. “Thanks, Mom and Dad,” I mutter to myself, but he chuckles anyway.

“It’s cute.”

I narrow my eyes at him, annoyed that he just called my name cute.

“Don’t call my name that. I’m not an eight-year-old girl.”

“Fuck. You’re feisty, aren’t you? I like that in a woman.” He winks, and it sends a shiver down my spine. What the hell is happening?

“Are you for real?” I ask.

“As real as my twenty-inch cock. Care to come in and see it?” He takes a step to the side and sweeps his arm from one side to the other, motioning for me to come in.

“Excuse me?” I nearly choke on my tongue and take a step back as I envision him pulling down his pants and whipping out his anaconda. “Are you insane or something?”

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